Dogs and Ghosts
by qrx
Summary: All Ian Doyle could do was laugh and wonder how a ghost could pull the trigger. One-shot.


**This is my first CM fic so we'll see how it goes :)**

**Post-"Lauren" Beware of spoilers.  
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><p><strong><span>Dogs and Ghosts<span>  
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It was dark and it was cold.

The air reeked of sweat and blood but it was the smell of fear and cowardice that caused Ian Doyle's lip to curl in disgust, this man had once been a warrior, and now a dog lay groveling in the ground before him. Repulsive .

"What the hell happened?" Doyle snarled. He let loose another kick and that time he heard bones break.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!" The dog howled in pain, clutching his sides as if to keep from falling apart.

"You don't know?" Doyle roared, he knelt down next to the dog and yanked his head by his hair. "You don't know how you got your kneecaps blown out?" Tears streamed down the man's cheek as he shook his head weakly back and forth.

"I don't know." He sobbed, "I don't know."

His sniveling, his tears, his snot, his sweat, his blood. If there was one thing Ian Doyle hated more than a weakling, it was a coward, and this man was both. He was a cancer, a tumor that needed to be cut out.

Doyle let go of the dog's hair and he crumpled to the ground. His meek whimpers filled the basement of the warehouse.

Drawing his gun, Doyle pointed it at the dog's head. The tumor would be cut out.

"Tell me what happened," Doyle's voice was calm, as if soothing a baby. "Or I will blow your fucking brains out."

"Please!" The dog cried, throwing up his hands in a vain attempt to shield his head, "I just did what you asked! I just did what you asked!"

There was a sharp click and the gun was cocked.

"What. Happened."

The dog took to a few gasping breaths, "I didn't have the clearance to access the information that you wanted… So I went to a friend of mine and he got it for me…" The dog paused his face pale, the blood that once colored his cheeks now colored the floor. Doyle could hear each rattling breath he took. The dog wouldn't last much longer.

"What did your friend find?"

"Nothing." The dog gasped, "The CIA doesn't have anything on Declan... After my friend told me he couldn't find anything I got into my car to go meet you… but someone was already in my car."

"What do you mean?"

"I got into my car…" The dog wheezed, as blood flew from his lips. "Then the next thing I know, I wake up here with some crazy chick that wants to know where you are!"

Doyle's grip on the gun tightened

And so the coward had become a snitch.

"What did you tell her?"

The dog did not speak. But Doyle could hear his heartbeat quicken, and his breathing become more desperate, and that told him everything he needed to know.

"WHAT DID YOU TELL HER?"

The dog began to sob again.

"Everything… I told her every-"

BANG.

It was dark and it was cold and now it was finally quiet.

The echoes of an injured dog's cries were silenced with the crack of a gunshot.

Ian Doyle tucked the gun back into the waistband of his pants, and calmly climbed the stairs out of the basement into the empty warehouse.

There were three men dressed in black waiting for Ian by the cars. As he approached they quickly stopped talking and stood at attention.

"Burn it."

The men nodded and started working.

"I'm going back to the pub. Call me when you're done."

They nodded again and Doyle left warehouse.

The dog had been the fifth warrior to fall. The fifth man to turn. The fifth snitch.

How long would it be until he had to put a bullet into the heads of the three men helping him now?

These days loyalty meant nothing. Loyalty can be bought, but it will only last as long as the man knows he'll still be around to spend the money. And that was the weakness that this unknown woman preyed upon. She took his men and showed them how much their loyalty was really worth.

Doyle trained his men to be warriors, and she taught them to be fools.

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><p>By the time Doyle arrived at the pub night had fallen and all the usual costumers were beginning to arrive. Ian started to move toward the back room when the owner beckoned him over.<p>

"I thought you said you were going to keep a low profile." The owner growled in a low voice.

Doyle's eyes narrowed, "What happened?"

"A woman was in here earlier askin' about you."

The air grew still and for a moment all Doyle could hear was the beating of his own heart. "That fucking dog." He swore.

"What?"

"I'll take care of it."

"Ian-"

"I said I'll take care of it!" Doyle snarled. The bar patrons grew quiet and looked curiously at the two men.

"Everything's fine," The owner insisted, "Mind your own business."

Once everyone had turned back to their conversations the owner spoke again.

"Look, I know I said you could stay here, Ian. But if you're going to bring trouble I have no problem kicking you out."

"If you didn't want any trouble you probably shouldn't have allowed the FBI's most wanted fugitive to stay in the room above your bar."

"This isn't funny, Ian."

"Do you see me laughing?" Doyle snapped. The owner recoiled, and Doyle felt the slightest twinge of guilt. This was a man he knew would never allow himself to be turned into a dog, and that was Doyle's only comfort.

"What did the woman look like?" He asked in a calmer tone.

"Short blond hair. She was wearin' these big sunglasses that covered half her face so I didn't get a real good look. Black coat, blue jeans, kinda pale lookin too."

Doyle sighed and ran his hand wearily over his face. He had heard several different testimonies of this woman's appearance from four of his five dogs and every time she was described differently. Long brown hair, short black hair, trench coat, no coat, boots, sunglasses, no sunglasses, brown eyes, blue eyes. She was a master of disguise, but at least one thing was always consistent, pale skin, like a porcelain doll.

"Call me if she comes in again."

The owner nodded and Doyle made his way to the staircase in the back room.

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><p>Each step creaked as he climbed up to the second floor where his room was. Mind racing. Who the hell was this woman? Was it someone he knew? Or just some spook sent to take him out? He wasn't so sure it was a spook, he doubted any government would consent to the information gathering methods this woman used. So his thoughts turned once again to people from his past, and two little names came drifting in from his subconscious.<p>

Lauren Reynolds.

Emily Prentiss.

The only person he ever thought was capable of finding and killing him. But she was dead. Gone.

Doyle reached his apartment, inserted the key, and stepped into the dark apartment.

Lauren Reynolds was dead.

Emily Prentiss was dead.

He stabbed the wooden stake into her gut. He watched them lower her coffin into the ground.

Lauren Reynolds was dead.

Emily Prentiss was dead.

The dead did not make his men squeal and beg for their lives. Yet, this felt so like her. It had the passion of Lauren, and the meticulous nature of Emily.

The shifting of the drapes caught Doyle's eye. The living room window was open, and a steady breeze had blown the drapes aside allowing a thin sliver of silver moonlight to filter onto the carpet floor. He never opened the windows.

Suddenly, he felt the wrongness of the room.

He started to reach toward his gun when something cold, and hard pressed against the back of his skull.

A woman's voice cut through the darkness, "You're a hard man to track down, Ian."

Doyle froze.

He knew that voice.

But it couldn't be.

It wasn't possible.

Lauren Reynolds was dead.

He felt his gun being pulled from the waistband of his pants, yet he couldn't bring himself to protest.

Emily Prentiss was dead.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked, yet he couldn't bring himself to fight back.

The only thing Ian Doyle could do was laugh and wonder,

Can a ghost pull the trigger?

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><p><strong>Review :)<strong>


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